Hatsukoi Yesterday's Best Friend
by Gold
Summary: MomoRyo. Written for the Hatsukoi 2007 competition at the MomoRyo lj community. Tracks Momoshiro's and Echizen's changes in their feelings and the relationship between them.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Hatsukoi – Yesterday's Best Friend

**Part 1: **Yesterday's Best Friend

**Author**: AlseGold

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: _Prince of Tennis _is created by Konomi Takeshi. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-san or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of _Prince of Tennis _. It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Konomi-san or aforesaid entities.

**Pairing:** MomoRyo

**Notes:** Written for the Hatsukoi contest 2007.

* * *

It started out plain and simple.

Bicycle rides to school.

Burgers after school.

Street tennis together.

Laughter-in-arms, comrades-as-one.

Racing each other home in the rain.

Who-can-scarf-more-noodles-down contests.

Who-can-eat-more-burgers contests.

It was all Momoshiro Takeshi could ask for. They were team-mates, best friends, chums who'd go to any lengths for silly things just because they were doing it to-ge-ther. They'd even give up their dreams for each other.

Momoshiro didn't know _when_ it had happened, but he always remembered exactly _what_ had happened.

One day, he looked up.

Big, dark eyes of liquid, olive-green-gold, blackly-lashed.

Hair like rough, dark, silk-satin weave.

Pout like a delicate, half-unfurled, crimson rose in bloom.

Skin feather-soft and smooth, with tiny, fine hairs that gave just the right amount of rough to the touch.

Limbs so clean and straight and tempting, like the golden flesh of sun-ripened apples.

Youth in its first flush, with all its arrogance and attitude.

Lust first, or love first?

—No.

_Horror_ first.

Yesterday's best friend was today's sudden fantasy; yesterday's carefree child was today's hormone-driven teenager.

He ran at first, as far as the eye could take him. Suddenly he had appointments after school: the dentist wanted all his teeth, his sister needed baby-sitting, his mother wanted him to cook lunch _and_ dinner, his neighbour had broken both arms and a leg, his father needed an office boy every second of every minute of every hour of every weekend…

After all, it was _wrong_. It would have mattered half as much if the other had been a girl—but the other was a _boy_, like him. The burden was therefore the greater.

Suddenly teenage angst was real.

Hello, I'm in love.

Hello, I'm in lust.

Hello, I want my best friend in the worst ways possible.

It was like the world had turned turtle over night, and the sun rose from the north, and eclipsed at noon every day, and the currents of the ocean moved anti-clockwise, and the fish came out of the seas to walk on the sands.

How had he never noticed before?

How could he not have known?

He always went wherever the other went. And if he hadn't been invited along, he followed secretly anyway. It had always been like that, and it wasn't as if they didn't know about it—it was, he had always thought, a long-running joke between them, where he would follow to get good blackmail material and keep himself hidden in various ways, and the other would outwit him by catching him just when he thought he had found the best hiding place in all the seven oceans and six continents.

Never thought that cross, sour feeling of being left behind was jealousy.

Never thought that annoyed feeling when others barged in was being possessive.

Never thought he would care—like _that_—for him.

Everything had to change.

He was leaving.

Again.

But this time—

—not coming back.

He could feel it in his bones.

And if he borrowed dentists and sisters and neighbours and mother and father as excuses, he didn't think the other noticed.

Seventeen when he fell in lust, much younger when he fell in love—

—Eighteen when the other left.

Fly high and sky high.

Go chase your dreams, Echizen…

… and leave me here to mine.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Hatsukoi – Yesterday's Best Friend

**Part 2:** Missing Pieces

**Author**: AlseGold

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: _Prince of Tennis _is created by Konomi Takeshi. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-san or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of _Prince of Tennis _. It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Konomi-san or aforesaid entities.

**Pairing:** MomoRyo

**Notes:** Written for the Hatsukoi contest 2007.

* * *

You should have known it was fate.

A shower of sakura petals, a broad chest in a dark blue uniform coat, with shining brass buttons and a collar pin marked "II".

"Watch where you're going, watch where you're going."

A tall, strong senior, with clear, laughing violet eyes and a cheerful, kind of stupid grin.

You saw him again, later, on the tennis courts—a regular, one of the elite, one of those you knew you were destined to be.

Your first doubles partner—your _last_ doubles partner, because although _Yappa Otoko wa, Doubles deshou_, God forbid that you play doubles ever again.

Besides, you liked it _much_ better when you could face him across the net and beat him at his own Dunk Smash game.

He'd take you to school on the back of his bicycle every morning, rain or shine, flying down the street while you clung on to his strong shoulders, his laughter and yours mingling in the dewy morning air.

Played tennis together, spent break-times together, emptied Eiji-_senpai_'s wallet together, roamed the street tennis courts together—

He was all you could ask for, a _sempai_, a team-mate, a best friend and a partner in crime.

But things are never static.

High school came along in the wake of the winds of change.

He had reams of homework and tests, dentists to visit and teeth to pull, a junior-high-age sister to bother about, umpteen neighbours with broken limbs to care for, a mother who decided that her boy needed to learn cooking skills, a father who would only hire his boy as office boy every minute of every hour of every day of every weekend…

You thought you understood. You, too, were busy. You had tennis practices, rivals to whip, a father to beat, and the call of the pro tennis circuits. The Japan Tennis Association came a-knocking, sports management agencies came a-ringing, and Kevin Smith in the U.S.A. kept a-calling, to tell you to hurry up and go over. Tezuka-_buchou_ was already there, with Atobe Keigo and Yukimura Seiichi and Sanada Genichirou. You chafed to go, too, to be part of the revolution they were stirring up over there, in the real world.

It was time for you to go.

So half a world away, across millions of miles of ocean, you played for the joy of the game and the glory of the win. Love confessions arrived for you by the truckload, endorsement requests were dumped on your doorstep by the shipload, and your managers chuckled all the way to the bank, trailing fat moneybags in their wake.

Everybody wanted a piece of the new you.

But—

—you were missing pieces of the old you.

You missed shouting, "SEI-GAKU, FIGHT-O!"

You missed the "Nya, ochibi!"

You missed the "GREAT-O! BURNING! COME ON, BABY!"

You missed the "_Fshuuuuu_…"

You missed the "Ii data…"

(Sometimes, although you would rather die first than admit it, you even missed Inui Juice, too, rotten-fish-juice taste and all).

You missed Oishi-_sempai_ and Fuji-_sempai_ and Eiji-_sempai_ and Kawamura-_sempai_ and Kaidou-_sempai_ and Inui-_sempai_.

But most of all, you missed the laughing violet eyes and the wide, silly grin of your Momo-_sempai_.

Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you'd see the back of someone tall and strong, with spiky hair, and you'd hold your breath and stop and stare and wait and wonder—

Sometimes, you thought you heard his voice, and you'd turn—

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you'd wake up suddenly, thinking you had heard your mobile phone ring with a particular ring-tone—

But the room would be dark and you'd know, then, that it was all a dream. Momo-_sempai_ didn't call anymore, because really, the stupid mountains were too high and the damned oceans _did_ divide people.

Then you'd wake Karupin and hug him close to you and pretend, just for a moment, that it would soon be morning, and Momo-_sempai_ would be waiting for you outside the temple gates, bike at the ready and whistling tunelessly under his breath.

—But of course, he was far away in another _there_, and you were far away _here_, and you could only bury your face in Karupin's soft fur, and ignore the lump in your throat.

April came round, and the cherry blossom trees in Washington, D.C. burst into bloom. They had been a gift from the country of your blood to the country of your childhood, long before you were born.

April, and instead of staying in Washington D.C., you were on a plane, on your way back.

You were going back for an exhibition tour, together with Tezuka-_buchou_ and all the others.

And the moment you landed, you snuck off—and from the equally fast way the others had disappeared, you were pretty sure they had some place to go, too.

You walked down the paths, crushing the sakura petals beneath your feet, and putting up your hand now and then to push away an overhanging branch or two.

The place was just as you remembered it, and you wandered along quietly, twirling a small, white cap in one hand, your other hand tucked in the pocket of your black tennis shorts. Over your left shoulder you carried a sports bag, bulging with your racquets and a few tubes of tennis balls. The bag was a cobalt blue, with a Yonex logo right alongside big white letters that spelt out the word "SEIGAKU". You wore a jacket, too, that matched your bag. The jacket was cobalt blue, slashed with narrow red and white piping at collar, cuffs and jacket edges, with the words _Seigaku_ _Tennis_ _Club_ on the back and across the left breast—right over your heart.

Then you looked up, and he was standing there, in the distance, under a canopy of tree branches, sprinkled with flying sakura petals.

You had to stop.

He was so tall now, and strong, and steady. You saw it in the broad shoulders, the firm set of his mouth and chin, the now-quiet violet eyes, and the waves of strength and sureness that seemed to pour off him. He was all grown up now, Momoshiro Takeshi, grown up when you weren't there, and when you weren't looking. The lump came back into your throat and you wondered just how much time you had lost.

In the distance, he turned his head (still dark and super-spiky after all this time) and saw you, and the words froze on his lips as his eyes bugged out, and his whole face got painted redder than tomatoes, and his jaw dropped and _just_ missed hitting the ground.

You lifted your chin slightly and your lips quirked upwards. And you felt _so _much better, because suddenly, the grown-up stranger who was Momoshiro Takeshi was gone, and you were looking at the old Momo-_sempai_ you knew, all bug-eyed and red-faced and slack-jawed.

You put your cap on, tugged the brim over your eyes, and strolled up to him.

His jaw was still pretty slack, and a whole horde of flies could have gone right in and made themselves at home.

"Momo-_sempai_."

You still had to crane your neck upwards to look at him, even after all this time.

He shut his mouth with a snap. Then he opened his mouth again. You watched his mouth form the word "Echizen" and his voice was all hoarse and croaky and disbelieving, and you couldn't help the smirk that started all the way from your heart and reached your eyes.

"I'm back, Momo-_sempai_." You paused in amusement to watch him struggle for words, and a warm feeling, the kind that you always got when you were around him, spread all through you, all buttery and chocolate-y. "You free for burgers, Momo-_sempai_? Your treat, of course."

And it was just _so_ much fun to watch the scarlet in his face deepen until he was almost rich purple, and to see his eyebrows twitch dangerously, and to hear him sputter indignantly, "_E-CHI-ZEN!_"

You shrugged your shoulders and coolly walked past him. "_Mada mada da ne, _Momo-_sempai_," you threw over your shoulder, just for the heck of it.

Behind, you could hear him grumble something about cheeky multi-millionaire _kouhai_ who were so stingy that they couldn't even treat their poor _sempai_ to burgers. But you knew, also, that he was following behind you, as fast as he could.

He was Momo-_sempai_, after all—_your_ Momo-_sempai_, and he would never let you down, never change in ways you wouldn't understand.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Hatsukoi – Yesterday's Best Friend

**Part 3: **Waiting

**Author**: AlseGold

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: _Prince of Tennis _is created by Konomi Takeshi. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-san or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of _Prince of Tennis _. It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Konomi-san or aforesaid entities.

**Pairing:** MomoRyo

**Notes:** Written for the Hatsukoi contest 2007.

* * *

Overhead, the deepening twilight sky was an open roof sprinkled with stars, and the grassy spot ended in a gentle, sloping plain that led down to the beach, where a lively barbecue was currently underway. A soothing breeze, fresh and tangy with the salt scent of the sea, ruffled the fronds of the palm trees nearby.

It was a beautiful and cool evening, and the sounds of the happy crowd at the barbecue had been thoughtfully filtered out by the breeze and the sound of the surf crashing on the sands.

Momoshiro Takeshi drew a deep breath and leaned back against the trunk of a palm tree.

So it had finally come to this.

Yesterday, like a sentimental fool, he had walked into the past and found himself face to face with the future.

It was spring, and every school in Tokyo had cherry trees and every cherry tree in Tokyo had burst into full bloom. But he had been looking for the old cherry trees, particularly those that graced the winding pathways of a certain middle school he had once attended, long ago in the distant past.

And on yesterday's paths, amidst the dancing _sakura_ petals that dipped and swirled on the light spring winds, Momoshiro Takeshi met the new, grown-up Echizen Ryoma. So new, so grown-up that it was almost impossible to see in this glowing, confident youth the childish, bratty friend of yesteryear.

Today's Echizen brimmed with the courage and pride of one who was fighting successfully to have a recognized place in the man's world he had chosen for himself. And when he had opened his mouth to speak, Momoshiro had heard not the voice of the boy who had been his best friend, but the words of an older youth who addressed Momoshiro with all the confidence and maturity of someone who had seen the world—and who had become a man because of it. Granted, there _had_ been a moment there when Echizen had, within five minutes of seeing him, demanded a burger treat, called him "Momo-_sempai_" and said "Mada mada da ne"— but Momoshiro was not stupid. He could read between the lines. The Echizen who had returned was not the same Echizen who had gone away. He'd all but grown up when Momoshiro was looking the other way.

Momoshiro's eyes slid past the sands and sky and sea, and came to a stop at the figure just beside him.

Echizen Ryoma was stretched out full-length on the grass, his eyes fast shut, lulled to sleep by the magical combination of a full stomach, the cool sea breeze, the evening sky above and his Momo-_sempai_'s warm and familiar presence nearby.

The once-small, perfectly-shaped face had become more defined over the years, rendering promises of fine cheekbones and an elegant jaw line. Those big, dark, liquid olive-gold eyes that had looked at Momoshiro so openly and fearlessly still stole his breath from him, and that quick, familiar little smirk still arrowed straight into Momoshiro's heart, as if shot sure and true from Cupid's own arm. And there was that _something_ there that made Momoshiro's blood sing fiercely through his veins, sent his heart leaping and pounding fiercely in his ears, and made his mouth ache with a hundred thousand things he wanted to blurt out freely.

_Do you...?_

_How did this ...?_

_Maybe I..._

_Suppose I..._

_Wish I..._

_You..._

_I..._

Sometimes Momoshiro half-wondered in a flight of fancy what sort of spell Echizen had put him under. He felt as if he was in some kind of vague dream, misty and neverending, walking on the edge of a precipice, beyond which was the road of no return.

He'd known Echizen for years upon years. He'd seen him grow from a tiny, ill-mannered freshman in that eternal white cap into a tiny, ill-mannered player who had reluctantly become a pillar, and later, a captain. They'd eaten burgers together more times than he could remember, played street tennis almost every night for six whole years, suffered from Inui Juice together, partnered each other every time someone came up with some weird group outing (like bowling and seeing sunrises atop mountains) and Momoshiro had even bought and discarded his bikes on the sole basis of whether they could take Echizen's rapidly increasing height and weight.

It was the kind of friendship you couldn't throw away just because you'd suddenly decided that you liked your best friend _a lot more_ than just best friends.

Friendship was for life. _Best_ friendship was forever.

More than that—well, Momoshiro didn't know. He couldn't trust it. He wasn't a girl, and he didn't think that the magazines his little sister was always reading could help either. High school was a whirl of tennis, studies and more tennis, and he'd never really troubled himself over puppy love the way the rest of his classmates seemed to. And yeah, he'd bawled over his mother's old reruns of _Heaven's Coins_ together with the rest of his family (including his surreptitiously weeping father and grandfather), but that didn't qualify him as some sort of soppy guy who believed in lovey-dovey forever. Not when he didn't know the first thing about the 'L' word that was bandied around so much by girls.

What _did_ he know?

He knew what he felt for Echizen. He knew what Echizen meant to him. He knew that Echizen was pretty much as important to him as his own family. Maybe even a little bit _more_ important, because he guessed that if it came to the crunch, he'd be quite happy to have the entire world as his enemy if it meant Echizen could be the centre of his life. He knew that it'd be enough if they could just be best _everything_ through life together. Just the two of them and no third person around. They didn't need to marry anyone, or even think about each other in any manner beyond plain friendship. Just... two old men, growing old together.

But it was a really big 'if'.

"Momo-_sempai_..."

Momoshiro jerked his head sharply, just in time to see Echizen mumble his name and turn over. Momoshiro held his breath and waited. Echizen didn't stir. He didn't even snore.

Momoshiro waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And he had a feeling that he would go on waiting, just like this— because, after all, what else had he been doing all along?

He had been waiting, since the day Echizen left. Waiting for some kind of sign somewhere, and now that Echizen had returned, he was still clueless. He didn't know what he meant to Echizen—but for him—

— he would go wherever Echizen called.

Yeah.

He would always be Echizen's Momo-_sempai_. And he would wait and wait, until he knew for sure that there was nothing left to wait for.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Hatsukoi – Yesterday's Best Friend

**Part 4: **The Way Home

**Author**: AlseGold

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: _Prince of Tennis _is created by Konomi Takeshi. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-san or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of _Prince of Tennis _. It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Konomi-san or aforesaid entities.

**Pairing:** MomoRyo

**Notes:** Written for the Hatsukoi contest 2007.

* * *

The world can change in ways nobody could have ever imagined once.

You have been away for twelve years now, and you have been to almost every continent, and stayed in every major city the world has to offer. Luxury hotels, people at your beck and call, first-class aeroplane tickets, caviar, champagne and fast cars (and women) if you wanted them—you live the life many people can only dream of.

Yet you have always been impatient, hardly able to wait until you can get off the plane and back on terra firma.

There is a small place on a coast somewhere, well-known for its excellent fishing. There are any number of small inns dotted here and there by the harbour, and the fishermen there are not the lonely, solo type popularised in the traditional stories, but real fishing crew—professional fishermen, who use gill nets and go to sea in long, fine white boats that came with fancy electronic equipment, and who are very rarely the owners of the boats. But like all real fishermen, they love the salt of the spray and the rocking blue waters, and the stinging sea breeze that tastes like brine and cuts their tongues and rattles their teeth and noses.

Just off that coast is a small island.

It is a very special island.

It has sandy beaches.

It has several natural _onsen_.

Part of it is mountainous; all of it is non-volcanic.

It can only be reached by air or by boat.

And your home is here.

A long time ago, you swore to yourself you'd build something you _really_ wanted. Find an island, make sure it had beaches and orange trees, and populate it with tennis courts and maybe a hammock or two, yeah. Add a Western-style barbecue pit, a Japanese-style grill and maybe a small house or something just in case it rained.

So you found your island.

Built a small white bungalow there, like the one you lived in when you were a child in Florida.

Hired gardeners to plant you a small fruit orchard, filled with apple trees and orange trees.

Made sure there were plenty of shady trees around.

Got your builders to add about eight tennis courts and a couple of Olympic-size swimming pools.

Bought yourself a state-of-the-art hammock.

Sandy white beaches, fruit trees, shady nooks, tennis courts, swimming pools, great _onsen_—paradise, some might call it.

You agreed. They were all parts of your own dream paradise.

But paradise would be incomplete without that one more thing—that one more _person_ you share all this with.

"Oi, Echizen! Come here!"

The smells of good, cooked (somewhat charred) meats and corn-on-the-cob permeate the air around you. You lounge in your hammock lazily. Why should you lift a finger, when someone is already there, in an oversized chef's hat and matching apron, toasting sausages and chicken drumsticks and shish kebab for you?

A plate of food, freshly barbecued, is thrust in your face, accompanied by a pretend-scowl.

But you know how to win him over.

So you make sure he's watching as you bite into a juicy chicken drumstick. Then you give him your biggest, brightest smile.

"Thanks, Momo-_sempai_."

You like the way his face lights up and that special sparkle in his eyes when he looks at you. You've always thought his eyes are his best feature, and yes, you've admitted it to him once... when you were drunk. You like the way he says things, too. And the way he spoils you and treats you like a prince of the royal blood. And, well... you just like everything about him. Really, _really_ like.

"I'm gonna barbecue the beef next!"

You notice the small drops of perspiration trailing down the sides of his forehead and face. You don't say anything, but you get off your hammock, and you put your plate down. Then you go over to the cooler and pull out a can of ice-cold, peach-flavoured Ponta. You hand it to him.

"Thanks, Ryoma."

You hope the darkness of the evening hides your blushes.

This is the way you show each other that you care—not through kisses and fond caresses—but through small gestures like that. You and him—both of you don't do hand-holding, don't make out, don't do more than perhaps leaning against each other now and then. At least, not in public. He's more physically demonstrative because he's more impulsive and open, sometimes sliding an arm around your shoulder or enveloping you in a bear hug, but you're okay with that. Neither of you really enjoys Very Public Displays of Affection, anyway (bear hugs and one-armed hugs don't count). You still call him Momo-_sempai_ most of the time; he still calls you Echizen most of the time. Any use of the first name in public is an overt sign of affection and you both rarely do that, because such things are private and should be kept as such. But you like it on the rare occasion that he does call you by your first name in public. This is the way you both prefer to keep things.

Sometimes, when the moon is full and you're in a good mood, you wonder how the two of you ended up this way. Him... and you. You know he realised what he felt for you first, and you're glad he waited until you woke up. You guess he must have known somehow that it was lying inside of you somewhere... all those things you feel about him. You've asked him before, curiously, when and how _he_ found out... and when he told you it was in high school, you didn't know whether to laugh or to hit him, because you were only a child then! Sixteen, for goodness' sake!

But you're secretly pleased. He's special—and _you_ must be something special too, to keep him from the girls all these years. Eighteen years as friends, and of those eighteen years, six years he's waited for you, and six years you've been more than just friends.

It isn't everyone who's managed this. You are one of the lucky ones and you know it. Your path, too, has been smoother than many, because you've had the support of many, many friends (including idiot, know-it-all _sempais_ who patted themselves on the back and said "I told you so"). Your family took some time to get round to it, but they've eventually come to accept it—and anyway, their only real anxiety seems to have been whether he's good enough for you (your dad _was_ horrified, but as Ryuzaki-_sensei_ says, it's better than sowing wild oats and being a playboy). And it has taken you years before you got here, but it is all worth it.

First love. Best friends.

That is what he is to you; that is what you are to him.

* * *


End file.
